And if I Love?
by Rahleigh
Summary: "It's called Stockholm syndrome, Mr. Wang. It's a paradoxical psychological phenomenon in which the hostage begins to empathize with and grow attached to their captor." "So, what then? He's in love with that bastard. What can we do?"


"It's called Stockholm syndrome, Mr. Wang. It's a paradoxical psychological phenomenon in which the hostage begins to empathize with and grow attached to their captor." The man explained, watching the young Chinese man out of his peripherals. Yao never noticed, his eyes too busy following the pacing figure trapped just behind the glass. His nephew. The man next to him continued. "When a captive's life is threatened and they are taken away from any and all connection with the outside world, they begin to need their captor. They become dependant. And when their abductor shows any amount of kindness, they become attached."

"So, what then?" Yao asked, eyes never leaving the two-way mirror, never leaving the dark-haired youth standing just out of reach. "He's in love with that bastard. What can we do?" The taller man sighed, turning back to the young boy, nervous and twitching, refusing to speak with the officer questioning him.

"Hope."

**APHAPHAPHAPH**

"What do you want from me?" The young Japanese man questioned the uniformed officer across from him. He was suffocating, the air hot and muggy and making him sweat but he hesitated to wipe the drops from his brow. That would be showing weakness.

"_You can't show weakness. Not to anyone. First chance they get, they'll walk all over you." _

The boy, Kiku, nodded minutely to himself, strengthening his resolve to give them nothing. He would show no weakness, just as he had been told.

"This would go a lot faster if you would just cooperate. Were on your side. You ain't in trouble, so why won't you just talk to us. We just wanna put away the bastard that did this to ya'." The officer explained, once again, or tried too, gesturing to the wild array of bruises marring Kiku's once beautifully pale skin. Kiku looked away, pretending to have never heard the man, but inside his heart was racing. Was this wrong? Didn't your parents always tell you to trust the police. They were only trying to help. Right?

Kiku peeked over at the man, taking in his every detail. His wheat blonde hair was short but looked soft to the touch and his blue eyes seemed to laugh at everything, contradicting the heavy frown on his face. His bright and shiny name tag near sparkled in the artificial lights. The words 'Alfred Jones' engraved in the false gold plating. He didn't seem like a bad guy, and Kiku could find no false tones in his speech, but he had been told…

There came three sharp knocks from the mirror taking up a whole wall of the tiny box room. The mirror that he had refused to look at the whole time he had been in here. Kiku had seen enough movies to know that on the other side of that seemingly safe mirror were people watching. Watching and waiting to spot the cracks in his defense, where they would burrow and dig in their rancid claws. Trying to get him to break from the inside-out by worming their way under his skin.

Alfred stood up with a heavy sigh and an apologetic smile to Kiku and went to open the door. Yao stepped in, holding out his arms for his nephew, who made no move to get up. Yao still stood patiently, knowing the boy's games and that if he waited long enough, the boy would eventually cave. And Kiku did. He got up, trudging across the room, to his uncle's embrace. He smiled to himself, liking the feeling but not willing to admit it.

"C'mon," Yao said, smiling down at the younger Asian, releasing him from his grasp and pulling him along and out the door. "We're going home."

Kiku didn't answer, just let his uncle drag him through the crowded police station. Through what seemed to be a sea of photographers eager to get a picture of him. The victim. Even though he wasn't a victim. They didn't care for the real story though. No. Just for the story that would sell more. He wished them all away, squeezing his eyes tight and willing them to just disappear. And for a moment everything became deathly quiet and Kiku had gotten his wish. The photographers were no longer concerned with him, their interest now lay with the man being led out in hand-cuffs, demented smile curling his lips.

Kiku didn't think, only acted as he caught sight of the blonde man. He twisted and turned and broke free from his uncle's death grip, vaulting headlong through the sea of press. Slipping and sliding and dancing some kind of sick dance through the mass of squirming bodies, finally breaking free with the smell of sweat and perfume stuck in his nose. He threw himself at the cuffed man, locking his hands together around the small of the taller man's back.

"Arthur" He breathed, burying his face into his torso, feeling more than hearing the low chuckle rumbling it's way through his chest. Once more the room had gone deathly silent, all inhabitants watching with baited breath to see who would make the next move. The aggressor, or the victim. All eyes in the room rested on them.

"Hello Kiku." Arthur greeted, bringing his arms up and over the boy's head, to slip them over his shoulders, movements awkward with the restraint of the cuffs. He patted the boy's back in what could have been described as a comforting gesture. Had he not been smiling like the mad man he was. "How've you been?" His tone was casual, teasing.

"I swear Arthur," Kiku whispered, clenching the fabric of Arthur's shirt in his small fist for all he was worth, breathing in deeply the musky scent of the man locked in his grasp. "I didn't tell them anything!"

"Shh, I know you didn't" Arthur soothed, rubbing calming circles on the dark eyed boy's back. "I did." Kiku's head snapped up and Arthur laughed at his wide eyed expression.

"Why?" The demand was quiet, and withdrawn and Arthur almost felt bad for the child. And that's all he was, a child dragged into a grown-ups game.

"Because, I've been found. There was nothing anyone could've done and I'd rather have the satisfaction of giving them every gory detail myself then let them figure it all out. That could take ages, and I don't much fancy rotting in cell while they all sit around and scratch their arses. I told them everything."

Kiku swallowed harshly at the lump in his throat, the man's words stinging his heart. He wanted to question but was terrified of the answer. He risked it anyway. "What's going to happen to you?" It was lower than a whisper. Arthur chuckled, but the sound held no humor.

"Well, we've already come to an agreement. A deal, if you will. I confess, and they send me to the front of the waiting list for Death Row." He smiled down at Kiku, as if he had just told a joke. He had announced Kiku's death. And already, he was dying inside, the thought a thousand tiny pinpricks through his heart. Arthur smiled, as if he knew just what he was doing to the poor man.

"Arthur, I-i love you." Kiku stuttered, the words foreign but tasting so right on his tongue. Arthur just chuckled that same humorless chuckle. He leaned down to kiss Kiku on the forehead, and whisper in his ear, "Don't be silly, Kiku. Love isn't real. Simply a useless thought that no one has any real meaning for", lips just brushing the shell of his ear. This triggered a chain reaction. The cameras flashed in and erratic symphony, accompanied by a buzz of voices that Kiku didn't care to listen to. The policemen escorting Arthur wrenched him away from the seventeen-year-old, tugging him roughly down the hall. He winked quickly at Kiku, twisting in the guard's grip to look back. He turned to face the front again, whistling a merry tune as he was taken away.

Kiku sat and stared, to stunned to realize that his uncle was back by his side, arms drawing him to his chest in a fatherly manner. He didn't care. He didn't care as the press swarmed. He didn't care as his uncle dragged him from the police station. He didn't care that everyone could plainly see the tears adorning his face. He didn't care, because Arthur didn't care.


End file.
